The Sum Of All Kisses Part 2

"I'm glad you're awake," Freddie said in a tone that forced Hugh to notice that he had not sat back down after pouring the laudanum. "I'll ask Corville to tell Father. I'd rather not, you know, if I don't have to . . ."

"Of course," Hugh said. The world was a better place when Freddie avoided their father. The world was a better place when Hugh avoided him as well, but someone had to interact with the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d on occasion, and they both knew it had to be he. That Freddie had come here, to their old home in St. James's, was a testament of his love for Hugh.

"I will see you tomorrow," Freddie said, pausing at the door.

"You don't have to," Hugh told him.

Freddie swallowed, and he looked away. "Perhaps the next day, then."

Or the next. Hugh wouldn't blame him if he never came back.

Freddie must have instructed the butler to wait before notifying their father of the change in Hugh's condition, because nearly a full day went by before Lord Ramsgate bl.u.s.tered into the room.

"You're awake," he barked.

It was remarkable how much that sounded like an accusation.

"You b.l.o.o.d.y stupid idiot," Ramsgate hissed. "Nearly getting yourself killed. And for what? For what?"

"I'm delighted to see you, too, Father," Hugh replied. He was sitting up now, his splinted leg thrust forward like a log. He was quite certain he sounded better than he felt, but with the Marquess of Ramsgate, one must never show weakness.

He'd learned that early on.

His father gave him a disgusted look but otherwise ignored the sarcasm. "You could have died."

"So I understand."

"Do you think this is funny?" the marquess snapped.

"As a matter of fact," Hugh replied, "I do not."

"You know what would have happened if you died."

Hugh smiled blandly. "I've pondered it, to be sure, but does anyone really know what happens after we die?"

G.o.d, but it was enjoyable to watch his father's face bulge and turn red. Just so long as he didn't start to spit.

"Do you take nothing seriously?" the marquess demanded.

"I take many things seriously, but not this."

Lord Ramsgate sucked in his breath, his entire body shaking with rage. "We both know your brother will never marry."

"Oh, is that what this is all about?" Hugh did his best imitation of surprise.

"I will not have Ramsgate pa.s.s from this family!"

Hugh followed this outburst with a perfectly timed pause, then said, "Oh come now, Cousin Robert isn't so bad. They even let him back into Oxford. Well, the first time."

"Is that what this is?" the marquess spat. "You're trying to kill yourself just to vex me?"

"I would imagine I could vex you with significantly less effort than that. And with a far more pleasant outcome for myself."

"If you want to be rid of me, you know what you have to do," Lord Ramsgate said.

"Kill you?"

"You d.a.m.ned-"

"If I'd known it would be so easy, I really would have-"

"Just marry some fool girl and give me an heir!" his father roared.

"All things being equal," Hugh said with devastating calm, "I'd rather she not be a fool."

His father shook with fury, and a full minute pa.s.sed before he was able to speak. "I need to know that Ramsgate will remain in the family."

"I never said I wouldn't marry," Hugh said, although why he felt the need to say even this much he had no idea. "But I'm not going to do so on your schedule. Besides, I'm not your heir."

"Frederick-"

"Might still marry," Hugh cut in, each syllable hard and clipped.

But his father just snorted and headed for the door.

"Oh, Father," Hugh called out before he could leave. "Will you send word to Lord Winstead's family that he may safely return to Britain?"

"Of course not. He can rot in h.e.l.l for all I care. Or France." The marquess gave a grim chuckle. "It's much the same place, in my opinion."

"There is no reason why he should not be allowed to return," Hugh said with more patience than he would have thought himself capable. "As we have both noted, he did not kill me."

"He shot you."

"I shot him first."

"In the shoulder."

Hugh clenched his teeth. Arguing with his father had always been exhausting, and he was far overdue for his laudanum. "It was my fault," he bit out.

"I don't care," the marquess said. "He left on his own two feet. You're a cripple who may not even be able to sire children now."

Hugh felt his eyes grow wide with alarm. He had been shot in the leg. The leg.

"Didn't think of that, did you?" his father taunted. "That bullet hit an artery. It's a miracle you didn't bleed to death. The doctor thinks your leg got enough blood to survive, but G.o.d only knows about the rest of you." He yanked the door open and tossed his last statement over his shoulder. "Winstead has ruined my life. I can b.l.o.o.d.y well ruin his."

The full extent of Hugh's injuries would not become known for several months. His femur healed. Somewhat.

His muscle slowly knit back together. What was left of it.

On the bright side, all signs pointed toward his still being able to father a child.

Not that he wanted to. Or perhaps more to the point, not that he'd been presented with an opportunity.

But when his father inquired . . . or, rather, demanded . . . or, rather, yanked off the bedsheets in the presence of some German doctor Hugh would not have wanted to come across in a dark alley . . .

Hugh pulled the covers right back up, feigned mortal embarra.s.sment, and let his father think he'd been irreparably damaged.

And the whole time, throughout the entire excruciating recuperation, Hugh was confined to his father's house, trapped in bed, and forced to endure daily ministrations from a nurse whose special brand of care brought to mind Attila the Hun.

She looked like him, too. Or at least she had a face that Hugh imagined would be at home on Attila. The truth was, the comparison wasn't very complimentary.

To Attila.

But Attila the nurse, however rough and crude she might be, was still preferable to Hugh's father, who came by every day at four in the afternoon, brandy in hand (just one; none for Hugh), with the latest news on his hunt for Daniel Smythe-Smith.

And every day, at four-oh-one in the afternoon, Hugh asked his father to stop.

Just stop.

But of course he didn't. Lord Ramsgate vowed to hunt Daniel until one of them was dead.

Eventually Hugh was well enough to leave Ramsgate House. He didn't have much money-just his gambling winnings from back when he gambled-but he had enough to hire a valet and take a small apartment in The Albany, which was well known as the premier building in London for gentlemen of exceptional birth and unexceptional fortune.

He taught himself to walk again. He needed a cane for any real distance, but he could make it the length of a ballroom on his own two feet.

Not that he visited ballrooms.

He learned to live with pain, the constant ache of a badly set bone, the pulsing throb of a twisted muscle.

And he forced himself to visit his father, to try to reason with him, to tell him to stop hunting Daniel Smythe-Smith. But nothing worked. His father clung to his fury with pinched white fingers. He would never have a grandson now, he fumed, and it was all the fault of the Earl of Winstead.

It did not matter when Hugh pointed out that Freddie was healthy and could still surprise them and get married. Lots of men who would rather have remained unwed took wives. The marquess just spat. He literally spat on the floor and said that even if Freddie took a bride, he would never manage to sire a son. And if he did-if by some miracle he did-it wouldn't be any child worthy of their name.

No, it was Winstead's fault. Hugh was supposed to have provided the Ramsgate heir, and now look at him. He was a useless cripple. Who probably couldn't sire a son, either.

Lord Ramsgate would never forgive Daniel Smythe-Smith, the once das.h.i.+ng and popular Earl of Winstead. Never.

And Hugh, whose one constant in life had been his ability to look at a problem from all angles and sort out the most logical solution, had no idea what to do. More than once he'd thought about getting married himself, but despite the fact that he seemed to be in working order, there was always the chance that the bullet had indeed done him some damage. Plus, he thought as he looked down at the ruin of his leg, what woman would have him?

And then one day, something sparked in his memory-a fleeting moment from that conversation with Freddie, right after the duel.

Freddie had said that he hadn't tried to reason with the marquess, and Hugh had said, "Of course not," and then he'd thought, Because who reasons with a madman?

He finally knew the answer.

Only another madman.

Chapter One.

Fensmore nr. Chatteris Cambridges.h.i.+re Autumn 1824 Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, veteran of three unsuccessful seasons in London, looked about her soon-to-be cousin's drawing room and announced, "I am plagued by weddings."

Her companions were her younger sisters, Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances, who-at sixteen, fourteen, and eleven-were not of an age to worry about matrimonial prospects. Still, one might think they would offer a bit of sympathy.

One might, if one was not familiar with the Pleinsworth girls.

"You're being melodramatic," Harriet replied, sparing Sarah a fleeting glance before dipping her pen in ink and resuming her scribbles at the writing desk.

Sarah turned slowly in her direction. "You're writing a play about Henry VIII and a unicorn and you're calling me melodramatic?"

"It's a satire," Harriet replied.

"What's a satire?" Frances cut in. "Is it the same as a satyr?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened with wicked delight. "Yes!" she exclaimed.

"Elizabeth!" Harriet scolded.

Frances narrowed her eyes at Elizabeth. "It's not, is it?"

"It ought to be," Elizabeth retorted, "given that you've made her put a b.l.o.o.d.y unicorn in the story."

"Elizabeth!" Sarah didn't really care that her sister had cursed, but as the oldest in the family, she knew she ought to care. Or at the very least, make a pretense of caring.

"I wasn't cursing," Elizabeth protested. "It was wishful thinking."

This was met with confused silence.

"If the unicorn is bleeding," Elizabeth explained, "then the play has at least a chance of being interesting."

Frances gasped. "Oh, Harriet! You're not going to injure the unicorn, are you?"

Harriet slid a hand over her writing. "Well, not very much."

Frances's gasp whooshed into a choke of terror. "Harriet!"

"Is it even possible to have a plague of weddings?" Harriet said loudly, turning back to Sarah. "And if so, would two qualify?"

"They would," Sarah replied darkly, "if they were occurring just one week apart, and if one happened to be related to one of the brides and one of the grooms, and especially if one was forced to be the maid of honor at a wedding in which-"

"You only have to be maid of honor once," Elizabeth cut in.

"Once is enough," Sarah muttered. No one should have to walk down a church aisle with a bouquet of flowers unless she was the bride, already had been the bride, or was too young to be the bride. Otherwise, it was just cruel.